


The Unluckiest

by theperksofbeingaballer (hannah_jpg)



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Alien STDs, Bad Time Skips, F/M, First One I've Ever done so Whatever I guess, Made Up Space Stuff, Reader Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 04:04:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14866253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannah_jpg/pseuds/theperksofbeingaballer
Summary: You end up in Medbay a few too many times for Dr. McCoy's comfort.





	1. Chapter 1

You’ve been on the Enterprise for about six weeks when your eyes start itching.

At first you ignore it, thinking it will go away – after all, it isn’t interfering with your vision or your work. But after several uncomfortable days, you look into a mirror notice a bright red, flaky rash spreading from the corners of your eyes. You grimace – no wonder it has been itching so badly. But you’re not one to put off the inevitable; you’ve had the rash before, and you know it will only get worse. On your next break, you make for the Medbay.

The room the nurse shows you into is pristine. Bright lights shine on neatly catalogued and stored medicines and various instruments, which line the walls on sturdy cabinets. It is not the first doctor’s room you have seen, by any means, but it certainly is the most interesting. Many of the devices you don’t recognize, and you wonder what they’re used for. Your imaginings aren’t particularly pleasant.

Eventually there is a knock at the door, and you barely have time to say “Come in!” before the doctor enters. You’ve seen him around the Enterprise before – it would be impossible not to – but he does not recognize you. A vague lifting of his lips in your direction as if in attempt to smile politely, and his eyes are back on his PADD.

“A rash, eh?” he says. “How long have you had it?”

“Two weeks now.”

“And this is the first time it’s cropped up?”

“Well, no,” you admit. “I had the same condition when I was younger, but I was given a shot and it healed right up. Haven’t seen it since then, until now.”

“Of course not,” Dr. McCoy says. “Some Earth medicine has a tendency to malfunction in outside of it – different atmospheres and makeup of air and such.” He tosses the PADD onto a table and stands in front of you, lifting your chin lightly to inspect your rash. You can’t help feeling a little nervous; his hand is warm, and his scrutiny intense. Then he releases you, and after he turns away you rub your clammy palms on your knees.

“It’s a common enough condition. I can give you a booster,” he says at last. “After four weeks or so, you should be safe from any outbreaks, no matter where you are. Until then, avoid any deuterium rays. This serum doesn’t much like deuterium.” He opens a cabinet and chooses a hypo, flicking it casually. Then he pauses, and frowns up at you. “You don’t work with deuterium, do you?”

“No,” you say hastily. “I’m part of the hydraulics maintenance crew.”

“That’s fine, then. Even this dingy space-water has only microscopic amounts of deuterium.”

The hypo is administered at your neck, of course, and you flinch as the needle breaks your skin. But it was over a second later, and the doctor tosses the used hypo into the trash receptacle before picking up his PADD again, scribbling notes quickly. Should you stay, or were you dismissed?, you wonder crossly. Your skin was still prickling a little.

Without looking up, the doctor says, “Hydraulics maintenance, eh? You work under Montgomery, then.”

“That I do.”

“My deepest apologies.”

You smile; there was a great deal of bickering and arguing and joking around between the senior most officers on board. You’ve seen no evidence of Scotty’s apparent flaws, for he has always treated his crew members perfectly fair. After another moment, the doctor speaks again.

“If your rash doesn’t clear in two days, come back.”

“Okay.”

The doctor doesn’t look up again, and you surmise you’ve been dismissed at last. You hop off the examination table, and you leave.

But you’re rubbing your injection site with a wince as you return to the engine rooms. Two days, and you would be fine. Right?

* * *

Life on the Enterprise is eventful enough that to your surprise, after several weeks aboard even the exciting moments begin to have a dull tinge. It is your first mission, and without the sun and moon to give you a sense of normality of time, you feel the days run together as one. You’ve forgotten Dr. McCoy’s orders – and when you’re sent to take ice composition readings of a Class N planet, you return to the Enterprise itching again. In the time it took you to take your measurements, the rash had resurfaced and begun to spread again, this time with crusty purple lesions. You return to the Medbay feeling pretty foolish.

The doctor tries to hide his exasperation, and you attempt a smile as he flakes off some of your skin onto a glass slide.

“Deuterium,” he grumbles to himself as he sits at a desk, and puts the slide into the tray of a microscope. “Messes with everything – ” His voice lowers, and you can’t hear the remainder of his mumblings. Patiently you swing your legs back and forth, trying to think of anything besides how badly your eyes are itching. You’re fortunate that Dr. McCoy works quickly, and a few minutes later he stands with a sigh.

“It looks normal enough, all things considered,” he says. “No bacteria. Deuterium has a funny way of reacting to meds.”

“Good,” you say, striving to appear happy. But really you just itch.

“This topical cream will heal the reaction left by the deuterium,” the doctor tells you, and from a drawer he produces a tube of ointment. “The booster should hold, providing you don’t traipse around any deuterium-rich planets from here on out.”

You take the tube, feeling embarrassed. “The planet wasn’t deuterium rich,” you say crossly. “It only makes up 4.6% in the atmosphere – pretty low for that type of planet, actually.”

“Enough to mess you up,” the doctor replies with an arch of his brow.

“It could have been worse,” you say.

“Could’ve been. Could’ve been better, too – you have sensitive skin.”

You already knew this, and you shrug nonchalantly. “Thank you for the cream,” you tell him.

“I don’t want to see you back here for this,” Dr. McCoy says sternly as you jump down from the table.

“I’ll do my best, doctor.”

“Good. Go on, then.”

You offer another friendly smile – he returns it with a tight smile of his own. You think that maybe you don’t believe your crew members that Dr. McCoy is the grumpiest person aboard. If he could be patient with your idiotic mistake, he couldn’t be _that_ bad.

* * *

 

You are very careful not to come across any more deuterium in the next weeks. There was only about five days left on the doctor’s original ban, but you’re thankfully relieved from taking water-composition readings at the next planet. Everyone who saw your crusty, purple rash seemed to waver between disgust and sympathy – you mostly just laugh, because your only other option was to be too embarrassed to leave your bunk.

To your gratitude, the cream works wonders, and you are looking relatively normal in less than a week. There was no scarring, and you are happy to accept the next assignment – a class L planet. You did stop by the Medbay before debarking, but the nurse you spoke to confirmed that the booster should be fully stable in your system by then. You should be safe.

The nurse did not account for anything else that might go wrong.

“What now?” was Dr. McCoy’s irritable greeting, when you were next aboard the Enterprise. You think that the answer should have been obvious; you were inclined on the examination table, your swelling ankle in the air. You glare at him – it was easy for _him_ to be annoyed, as he was in no pain – and after a moment you’re surprised to hear him give a snort of laughter.

“How did it happen?” he asks. His eyes are on your ankle, and he prods a finger into the swelling. You wince.

“Rapid verdure expulsion.”

The doctor glances up at your face. “What?”

You grit your teeth. “The roots of the native vegetation grow spontaneously, most often when threatened.”

“You’re saying that a tree root jumped out of the ground and tripped you?”

“It sounds pretty pathetic when you put it that way,” you say with a scowl.

“Well, I’m daggum glad I stayed behind for this one,” Dr. McCoy says. He rifles through a few drawers, pulling out bandages and a jar of thick paste. “Kirk always bugs me to go down and explore even when I’m not needed – as if I don’t have enough to do here.”

You manage a weak smile as he pulls on a pair of gloves, and begins to dab the paste on your throbbing joints. “Well,” you say to fill the silence. “I’m sure that if I didn’t keep turning up here, you would have time enough to explore planets to the Captain’s content.”

To your surprise, the doctor snorts and glances at your face. A moment later he says, “Your rash is looking better.”

“It feels better.”

“Good.”

You stare up at the ceiling for a while, tapping your fingers restlessly on your ribs.

“This cream will speed up the healing of your ligaments,” he tells you, ripping off his gloves and unwinding the linen bandage. “I’m afraid the best treatment for something like this is still wrapping and keeping your weight off it. Can you take your next shift off?”

“I should be able to.”

“If Scotty puts up a fuss, you tell me and I’ll talk to him.” The glint in the doctor’s eye as he glances at you makes you think that such a ‘talk’ would be far less casual than the word implies. Immediately the image of Dr. McCoy arguing down Scotty comes to mind, and you press your lips together to keep from laughing. Your reaction must have been obvious to the doctor, for a small smile forms on his face before he turns back to the bandage he is wrapping around your aching and gunked-with-cream foot.

Once he is finished, he washes his hand at the tiny sink before striding to your side, offering you a hand to help you sit up straight. You grasp it tightly, trying not to feel his other arm hand on your back for support – well, you don’t try _very_ hard. You blink quickly as your head spins with dizziness.

“A nurse will help you back to your bunk,” Dr. McCoy says. He makes for the door, but pauses to glance back. “Say, did any others on the expedition – ah, get tripped by the native foliage?”

You resist sticking your tongue out, and say sweetly instead, “One crewman got whacked in the face, but he only has a black eye.”

“Great. I suppose he’ll roll in once it’s infected from some alien bacteria.”

You smile at the annoyed pinch of his brow. “I suppose.”

Were you imagining it, or was the doctor chuckling to himself as he passed through the door?


	2. Chapter 2

Your ankle heals fast, faster than you expected. After two days, you return to Medbay and Dr. McCoy pronounces you safe to return to work.

“But no more sprains or rashes,” he tells you, and though his expression is stern you think that he’s less severe than he acts. You give him a cheeky smile, and he waves you away with a shake of his head after you tug back on your boot.

Although the Enterprise isn’t really a great place for clumsy crew members, you’ve acclimatized to it pretty well – the walkways which follow the pipes through the engine rooms have railings to keep hold of, which you’re grateful for, even if the metal sometimes became slippery with the buildup of condensation. With the doctor’s half-threat in mind, you even take more care when taking readings of new planets. Or you would, at least – but there are no planets to explore for several days.

Murmurings of boredom and cabin fever begin to ripple through the crew. You ignore them, coping with your own doubts by working harder. It’s about time for the semi-annual pipe inspections, anyway, and Scotty asks that you do a preliminary inspection before the final one, which would be reported to the captain. It keeps you busy, and though there’s little company in the lonely plumbing chambers, you amuse yourself by singing as you check the densities and wear of the pipes, water compositions, and current flow obstructions. Your voice echoes in the empty chambers, and once your routine of the west-wing pipes is complete, you bounce back to the main engine chambers to report.

Your boots echo eerily on the metal walkways. You know Scotty is there, and so to amuse him you begin a new song –

_Ye bank and braes of bonnie Doon  
_ _How can ye bloom so fresh and fair?  
_ _How can ye chant ye little birds  
_ _While I sae weary, fu’o’care…_

“Didn’t know you had your own concert hall here, Scotty.”

Your voice strangles in your throat as you recognize a voice coming from the control panel you’re approaching. Not expecting anyone besides Scotty, you duck behind a water tank and peek ahead.

“Aye, I’m very lucky,” Scotty replies with a laugh. He’s lounging in his chair, swinging round to speak to – Dr. McCoy. Of course. But what was the doctor doing in engineering? Scotty continues, “I’ve asked her to oblige my own fancies and sing old Scottish airs; if you get her started she’ll sing anything. Her granny taught earth studies or something on some colony or another.”

“Or you could do as the rest of us and use the ship’s music archives and the overhead speakers. Or better yet, earphones,” the doctor replies.

“Now, where’s the fun in that?”

You want to hear the rest of the conversation – you open your toolkit and rummage through for a wrench, and half-heartedly begin to tighten the screws on the tank you’re hiding behind. Not that it’s necessary. Your eyes stray to the men by the control desk.

“If she sings on duty, it’s no wonder she has so many injuries,” Dr. McCoy says, and you stick your tongue out in his direction.

“She’s fine, lad,” Scotty tells him. “A good worker, even if she does – ”

In your distraction, you aren’t watching what you’re doing, and in the middle of Scotty’s sentence you feel a horrific pinch and give a loud cry. The conversation ceases at once.

“Flipping – bleeding – ” You gripe angrily, and the wrench clatters to the floor. The skin on your thumb is broken, and from the throbbing you wonder if it broke entirely. The sight of blood forming droplets on your skin make your head spin, and your legs begin to shake. Numbly you sit upon the cold metal walkway, staring at your hand.

In your dizziness you barely hear the pairs of footsteps running towards you, and you blink at the bright lights above as your body begins to weigh down heavily. Nausea floods your stomach and you teeter in place. A strong arm catches you before you fall over entirely.

“I told you,” was the doctor’s angry snap, and his face, pinched with concern, comes into blurry view in front of view. “Scotty, you idiot.”

“Most people don’t get injuries from taking water composition readings,” Scotty’s voice speaks, and you see him, too. He’s frowning, which is rare. You try to tell him you’re just fine, but your lips aren’t working.

“Now, miss. I told you no sprains and no rashes, but that did not mean, _find any other way possible to injure yourself_. Can you stand?” Dr. McCoy says to you, and his voice is slow. Because your ears aren’t working, or because he thinks you’re stupid?

His words incense you enough that you can reply, “My thumb is hurt, not my legs,” in a snap. Even with his face mostly obstructed by the waves of nausea clouding your senses, you think you see his lips twitch. Humor? Or anger?

“Help me take her to Medbay, Scotty.”

“She’s not _that_ hurt, now – ”

“She’s about to pass out! Help me, I said.”

A broguish grumble, and you feel yourself lifted to your trembling legs by a man on each side. Great. You’re sure you don’t look stupid at all. Then as the ground drifts further away, you get a whiff of your own blood and your mind turns woozy.

“I’m sorry I didn’t finish your song, Scotty,” you manage to say, turning to your left. Was that him? Or the doctor? You don’t know. They’re dragging you along, and you think to walk yourself – but your limbs won’t obey you.

“’S alright, lass,” replies Scotty’s voice to your right. “Now the doc will be telling me I should put a 24-hour guard on you.”

“Don’t give me any ideas,” grunts Dr. McCoy.

Your consciousness is so-so, and you barely notice when the three of you enter Medbay, though the feel of a bed beneath you brings you back to the present. Your hand is aching something awful, and you lift your head to glance downward. Dr. McCoy is standing beside the bed, holding your limp wrist in his hand as he examines your thumb. You see the blood again, now drying on your skin, and you feel another wave of nausea. You put your head back down and close your eyes.

“It’s not so bad,” he says, and his voice is quieter now. Had Scotty left? “I’ll bandage it up for you, make sure it doesn’t get infected. Can you move your thumb?”

You try, but a sharp pain shoots up your arm.

“Ah – no,” you say lamely. He places your hand back gently upon the bed and turns to the cabinets in the examination room.

“I’ll do a more thorough examination, but as far as I can tell it’s only a torn ligament,” Dr. McCoy says.

“Only?” you choke back. There’s silence for a moment before he speaks again.

“The sight of blood makes you ill, doesn’t it.”

“Yes.”

“You’re nauseous now.”

“Mmm.”

He sighs, a long-suffering sigh that might have annoyed you if you didn’t feel so sick. “Keep your eyes closed, then. We’ll get it wrapped up soon enough.” You hear his footsteps returning, and still you don’t open your eyes. It’s for the best, you think.

“I’m going to give you a small dose of something to keep you calm. It will help with the nausea, too.”

There’s a prick in your arm, and immediately a light, floaty sort of feeling streaks through your veins. Are you still on the bed? Or are you _actually_ floating?

“O-o-o-h,” you say aloud while the ceiling above you spins in a bright circle. “That is… _strange_.”

You hear a chuckle nearby. Dr. McCoy? Laughing? That was a stronger drug than you thought. There’s a buzz of coms, and the doctor requests a nurse and – and other stuff. It’s too hard to think. You wonder again if Scotty is still there. Would he stay? Or would he have returned to the engine rooms? You hum his song under your breath, and as white clouds seem to drift in front of your eyes, you even dare to sing – you aren’t likely to get any more injured, anyway…

_Oh ye’ll break my heart, ye warbling birds  
_ _That wanton o’er the flowerin’ thorn  
_ _Ye mind me o’ departed joy  
_ _Departed never to return…_

“Pipe down, miss,” comes the doctor’s grumble. He’s lifting your hand again, and you hear the slight whisper of someone else – Scotty? The nurse? You can barely feel what is being done to your thumb – but you don’t really care to look and see for yourself.

“I didn’t finish Scotty’s song,” you explain to whoever was there. Despite the floaty feeling in your body, your throat is a little hoarse. No wonder Dr. McCoy didn’t want you to continue.

“Scotty’s not here,” he tells you in a terse voice. “Serenade him later.”

“I can serenade you, then,” you say airily. “It’ll keep me calm. Shouldn’t I be calm?”

“The hypo is supposed to keep you calm. Though it might be working _too_ well.” The last part was a mumble, slightly softer as if spoke to the nurse in an aside.

The white clouds in front of your eyes are growing denser, and you can’t see the ceiling anymore. Or are your eyes closed? You think they might be. You’ve fallen asleep – that must be it. This was a dream. You could say whatever you want in your dreams.

“I’m awful at flirting,” you sigh, feeling woeful. What sort of drugs did he give you, anyway?

“This is not the time for flirting. Save that for later, too.”

Exactly what Dr. McCoy would say. Your dreams are _amazingly_ accurate.

“Another time?” your mind is growing hazy, and your head lolls. Though your voice is growing feeble, you continue on. “But I don’t see you any other time.”

Silence. An awkward, feminine cough – oh yes, your dreams remembered that there was a nurse there as well. Then the doctor spoke again, his voice undeniably…gruff.

“Don’t tell me you injure yourself on purpose, just to see me.”

“Of course not!” you protest weakly. “But…but…” Your voice trails off. What were you saying? You forgot. Oh, yes – you swallow before finishing your thought. “But I won’t _complain_ , doctor.”

A grunt in response. Then your hand is lowered, lowered, lowered…is it sinking through the bed? You hear the voices near you, but they no longer make sense. A prick in your arm, and you remember no more.


	3. Chapter 3

When you next wake, you’re in your own room. You blink in bafflement at the dim lights all around – how did you get there? What day was it, anyway? There’s a dull throbbing behind your eyes, and you groan before twisting around in your bed. Oh, right – the half-numbed pain in your hand is a swift reminder.

The memories of your accident are vague; likely the drugs the doctor gave you were to blame. Dr. McCoy  _had_  given you something strange, hadn’t he? You barely remember – but the oddest sense of embarrassment gives you pause. What had you done to be embarrassed about? You lift your injured hand to your face, squinting at it in confusion. Your thumb is wrapped in a thick linen…bandage, you guess – and a thin metal brace holds it straight from your hand, wrapping around your wrist for stability.

“That’s a bit much, don’t you think, doctor?” you grumble to yourself, though you know he’s not there. “No need to make me look as stupid as I feel.” A torn ligament from tightening screws! You’ll never live it down – the other engineers would tease you for  _months_.

You roll on your side, fumbling around for your PADD. You hold it in your good hand, blinking at the bright screen. The first notification is a terse-sounding note, and it takes very little imagination to hear Dr. McCoy’s voice in your head.

_If you have a headache from the medicine, sleep it off. When you are feeling normal, come to Medbay for a follow up exam._

The next notes were from Scotty; one informing you that you are relieved of duty until the doctor deemed you fit to work, and a few updates on the pipe inspections. You put away your PADD then, deciding you’d rather obey Dr. McCoy and keep sleeping rather than read any reports.

You curl and uncurl your fingers as best you can around the brace, just for practice. It twinges a bit, but nothing major. If your hand is out of commission, at least you might help Scotty compile electronic reports; when you’re approved for work, that is…

Several hours later you wake again, your mind far less hazy and a jitteriness from having slept too long spurs you out of bed. You’re all too happy to peel off your uniform – it’s obvious by the smell that you’ve worn it far too long. After a quick wash (made difficult by the brace on your hand), and a clean uniform you feel, as the doctor advised,  _normal_.

It’s the late night shift – what passes for late night, anyway, but there are still lights on in Medbay. You pause in the foyer, and after a moment a door slides open to your right, and Dr. McCoy walks out, his eyes upon his PADD in his hands.

You clear your throat, and he looks up.

“Oh, you’ve make your triumphant return,” he says after a moment, his expression level. Too level, you think. “Feeling better?”

“Relatively normal,” you tell him. “Ready to get this brace off.”

“Wishful thinking, no doubt. Come on through.”

You follow his long strides into an exam room, and, used to this sort of thing by now, you sit up on the bed and await the doctor patiently. He’s not meeting your eyes, but you don’t wonder at that – this is Dr. McCoy, after all. A niggling memory of having embarrassed yourself in front of him unsettled your mind, but you shake it away. You would remember  _that_ , you’re sure.

“Pain level?” he asks, gazing down at his PADD.

“Tolerable.”

“Movement of your hand and fingers?”

“Would be better if I didn’t have this blasted brace.”

His eyes flit upwards to meet yours. His expression is not impressed. “Feeling any aftereffects from any medication?” he asks.

“No, I don’t think so.”

There’s a pause as he tosses the PADD onto a table, and walks over to pick up your hand, brace and all. His fingers are gentle as they prod your wrist and palm, and wiggle your healthy fingers.

“Looks fine,” the doctor says at last. “You can return to work on your regular shift. Keep your activity light and don’t get your hand wet, because I don’t want to rebandage your thumb. If you strain anything from working too hard, I’ll have the captain leave you at the next base.”

Your face is burning hot, and you tug your hand away. “Thanks, doctor,” you say, only a little sarcastically. There was certainly no doubt what  _he_  thought about you.

He produces a small flashlight from his belt, lifting your chin with one hand to shine the beam into your eyes. You flinch away, but his grip is strong.

“You had a funny reaction to the meds,” Dr. McCoy informs you, and drops your chin.

“Did I? I don’t remember.” You wonder at the strange tone in his voice as he turns away, busy with more notes on his PADD.

“That’s probably for the best.”

You frown at his back. “Why, what did I say?”

“Nothing worth repeating.”

Again the sense of embarrassment assails you, and you decide not to press him further, despite your burning curiosity. “Do I have to keep the brace on?” you ask the doctor, feeling peeved.

He turns around, leaning against the countertop, with his arms crossed. His brows are pinched, as if confused, though you don’t know what he could be confused about. You hold his gaze for a moment before he speaks.

“Right. Keep it on for a few days, and if your hand is feeling better you can remove it. You need to keep the bandage on your thumb on for at least a week.” He pauses, and then adds, “Come back in seven days, then, and we’ll see how it healed up.”

“Alright.”

Another silent moment – this one feeling a tad more awkward, as Dr. McCoy studies your face. You purse your lips, waiting for him to say something, but…nothing. “Is that all?” you ask at last.

“Ah – yes. You may go now.”

“Thank you.”

You slide off the examination table, making for the open door. Before passing through, you pause and turn back. The doctor lifts his brows. “You aren’t serious about leaving me at the next base,” you say.

His lips twitch, and you wonder if he just almost smiled. The thought makes  _you_  smile.

“Better not push it to find out,” he warns.

“Do you threaten all clumsy crew members this way? Or just me?”

At this a look of visible discomfort crosses his features, and he shakes his head as he turns away. “No more injuries this week, okay?” he says tersely.

“Okay.” Like you could control it, anyway.

“Good night.”

It’s a long walk back to your cabin, and with the lights dimmed for third shift you wander along, rather enjoying the quiet buzz of the ship’s engines. After several minutes you begin to hum to yourself, thinking of Scotty’s song and how you had gotten yourself injured in the first place –

_Ye bank and braes of bonnie Doon  
How can ye bloom so fresh and –_

Oh. The memory of what you had said to Dr. McCoy in Medbay floods back. Your face begins to burn, and you hold a hand to your cheek as if to cool it. No luck.

Had you  _really_  offered to serenade him? And mentioned…flirting? 

Oh… _no_.

You can never speak to the doctor again.

* * *

 

“Nurse, please – can’t  _you_  just look –”

“I’m sorry, but Dr. McCoy is your primary physician, he needs to be the one to see you.”

Disappointment clenches your jaw, and you clasp your hands together, pleading, “It’s just a brace and cast removal, Nurse. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind –”

But she shakes her head. “That may be so, but there are procedures we have to follow. I’ll send him in as soon as he’s free.”

 _May he be delayed forever_ , you think to yourself, but you manage a polite smile as the nurse leaves you in the exam room, closing the door behind her. In the silence that follows, you let out a huff of air, swinging your legs on the end of the exam table, trying to release your nerves.

You decide with determination that if Dr. McCoy doesn’t mention what happened while you were medicated, you certainly would not. Perhaps the entire incident could just be forgotten, and never mentioned again…and as long as you stopped getting injuries you needn’t worry about seeing him again. Yes, that would be simplest.

“Mornin’,” the doctor says when he enters a few minutes later, and though his eyes are on his PADD, not on you, your heart beating uncomfortably fast. He greeted you with a good morning? Something weird must be going on…

“Good morning,” you reply, and straighten your back. It was important to appear unconcerned, for perhaps he would think you didn’t remember the flirting incident at all…

“Let’s see how your thumb healed up.” Dr. McCoy is focused entirely on his task, and for once, you’re grateful. He doesn’t look at your face as he pulls out a tricorder, waving it around your hand and up your arm as it buzzes melodically.

“All fine,” he says at last. “Shall we take the brace off?” And his eyes flit up to yours – he’s standing pretty close, and you can see the blue flecks in his hazel eyes. That medical uniform was awfully attractive…

You clear your throat. “Yes, please.”

“If you’ve gotten attached to it, I can leave it on –” There’s a smile threatening his lips.

You feel your cheeks warm, and you shake your head emphatically. “I haven’t been able to do my normal duties. I would very much like to be useful, instead of wandering around as easy teasing fodder.”

“You’re pretty easy fodder, brace or no,” Dr. McCoy says, and he looks down to unlatch the metal brace. “I’m impressed you haven’t had any other accidents with your hand so impaired.”

“Well, I haven’t really  _done_  anything. Making report logs isn’t very dangerous.”

“It’s been a nice break for me.”

You glare at the top of his head, and when he extracts the brace and looks up with a smile, you feel a weird twisting in your stomach. A tense, quiet sort of moment, and then the doctor leaves the brace on the table beside you. He holds your wrist in his hand, and gently pulls away the bandage from your thumb. You hope he doesn’t see your shriveled skin.

“Can you move it?” he asks.

You wiggle your thumb, delighting in both the freedom and movement and the lack of pain. “Perfect,” you declare with delight.

“Not perfect,” he says dryly. “Perfect would have been not injuring yourself in the first place.”

“That would be impossible, now wouldn’t it? I have to be grateful for what I can get.” You give Dr. McCoy a winning smile, and he gives a snort of laughter.

“Let me show you some exercises to get back full mobility.”

“Okay, coach.”

A half-annoyed, half-amused glance your way. You hope your cheeks aren’t  _too_  red – but judging by how your face feels, you’re probably as bright as Mars. Hopefully the doctor wouldn’t notice. As far as you can tell – he doesn’t, too focused on explaining how to stretch your thumb to strengthen the muscles from days of inactivity.

“Any questions?” Dr. McCoy asks several minutes later, setting down your hand at last.

“Ah –”  _Repeat all of that please, because I wasn’t actually listening_. “Nope.”

“Good. You can return to your duties.”

“Thank you.”

“No more injuries,” he adds as you’re about the step through the door, and you turn to give him a cheeky smile. He’s leaning against the countertop, looking so very natural and handsome that you can’t help responding a little flirtatiously,

“I can make no promises, doctor.”

He shakes his head in weary resignation, but he’s not too upset – at least, you don’t think so. Then he chuckles, and gives you the slightest smile in return.

Your feet have wings as you walk back to the engine room.


	4. Chapter 4

Some days later you hop down from the stairs at the end of your shift, intending to search out a meal when you overhear Scotty on the coms. You don't know who he's talking to, but from the expression on his face it must be important. You obviously haven't learned your lesson from last time, and you dawdle, hoping to overhear…

"Not a problem, doc. I'll send my Chief Hydraulics Engineer. She'll have it up and running in a jiffy."

"Thanks, Scotty. Bones out," was the crackled response over the speaker.

So much for a meal. You plaster a smile on your face as Scotty swivels 'round in his chair, visibly jolting backwards to see you standing next to him. He recovers and begins to say,

"Clogged sink – "

"In Medbay," you interrupt, and then with a lift of the brows, "I'll have it up and running in a jiffy, now won't I?"

Scotty laughs as you swing your kit of tools over your shoulder in mock weariness, wiping invisible sweat from your brow. "That's my lassie," he says. "Go show the Doc you're more than a walking medical accident."

" _Me_?" you say in horror. "Surely not  _me_."

"You've more injuries so far than anyone else in engineering, so don't pretend the shoe doesn't fit!" The last part he shouts down the corridor as you turn to leave.

" _Chief_  Hydraulics Officer?" was Dr. McCoy's incredulous greeting when you step through the door into Medbay. You offer a smile.

"Why, yes. I believe so. It's on my records, if you ever bothered to read those."

"Clumsy Chief Hydraulics Officer," and his voice lapses into a grumble. "Who's in charge of ship assignments, anyway."

You decide not to be offended, shrugging this off as simple bad humor. People did tend to get grumpy when their plumbing was all in a twist. "Where's the leak?" you ask.

"In here – " He shows you into one of the exam rooms. "We can only get a few drops of water at a time through the faucet. Hot or cold."

You toss down your bag of tools, squatting to open the cabinet beneath the sink. It's dark, and so you produce a flashlight to examine the pipes there. "Let me guess," you say. "It stopped working about the time that we were grazed by that Klingon missile four days back."

"Ah – yes, how did you know?"

"Things get squeezed and jolted out of place when the ships gets a bump." You rummage through your kit for a device to read the metal thickness, and shift to lay on your back to get your readings. There are some bends and scratches, blocking off the flow of water. Not at all surprising. After a moment, feeling awkward, you say,

"You don't have to stay and watch, doctor. I'm not going to break it more."

"Don't I need to stay to make sure you don't get injured?"

You lift your head to scowl at Dr. McCoy. His brow is quirked, and if you were to guess by the tense way he was standing, he probably  _did_  think you were going to mess up the plumbing entirely. "No, not really. I'm within shouting distance of any number of nurses."

"Well, I would just want to make sure –"

"Then make yourself useful, and buzz Scotty for a 27-A replacement pipe and four matching screws."

A pause. Then, "Yes, ma'am."

You half-listen to the chirp of the coms and the doctor repeating your instructions as you turn of the water valve. The screws holding the busted pipe in place are rusted over slightly, but with a wrench and a bit of elbow grease you get them out, pulling out the ruined pipe.

"Metal recycling," you say, giving it to the doctor.

"I'm not your assistant," he tells you in a warning tone, even as his fingers close around the pipe.

"But you said ' _yes ma'am'_  so nicely, I thought you wouldn't mind helping rather than standing around watching nervously."

There's a grumble under his breath, but you hear his footsteps move away all the same. A  _klunk_  of pipe in recycling disposal, and you smile at the bowl of the sink above your head. There is some corrosion of the metal, and you sit up, careful not to hit your head on the edge of the counter, to sift through your toolkit for some cleaner and a rag.

"Things have been quiet around here, huh?" you ask, settling back to focus on your work. After all, if Dr. McCoy was staying to watch you work…

"I suppose," he says. "Injuries from the Klingon missile were pretty minor, and we haven't stopped at any planets in a week. But things will pick up again, I'm sure."

"I'm sure," you murmur in reply.

"And anyways, you're my best client, and you haven't been around."

"Yes, well – I don't want you to be overworked, you know."

"Thanks," was his sardonic reply, and you smile again. There's an interrupting knock at the door, and a crewman from engineering steps through with your goods. Dr. McCoy takes them and thanks him, and crouches beside you underneath the sink to pass you what you need.

It's not a difficult fix, and you hum under your breath as you pass a stiff brush easily through the pipes now. Layers of gunk – likely the anti-buildup solution hasn't been used in these rooms for weeks. There's no real damage, but it's definitely a hassle. You decide to drop a note to the cleaning crews after this.

"What are you humming?" the doctor asks after a moment.

"Oh, um – a favorite of my gran's. She was fascinated by the heavy-metal movement of the late 20th century and how it influenced non-western countries. I think she wrote one of her dissertations on it…I can't quite remember."

"I'm sorry –  _what?_ "

"Have you heard of Skindred?"

"No, I haven't."

"Then you wouldn't know the song anyway." Satisfied with your job at last, you toss away the brush. "Pipe, please." Dr. McCoy gives it to you, and it fits perfectly flush in place. You absently hold out your hand which was not occupied holding the pipe in place, and say to him, "Screw me."

There's an awkward pause. Distracted from your task, you realize what you said – and your face burns.

"Sorry," you say quickly. "It's what we say in engineering –"

"Huh," the doctor says, and he drops a screw in the palm of your hand. "Wish I was in engineering."

"It's a joke."

"I figured."

"Evidently not a very funny one, to anyone who's not an engineer." You tighten the first screw in place, and hold out your hand for another.

"I thought it was funny," he says without a trace of humor. "Didn't you hear me laugh?"

"Must've missed it. Another, please."

Dr. McCoy passes you the third screw, and you try not to remember that his eyes are on your face. "So…in engineering, I guess ya'll just bang and screw all day, huh."

"Yep. You hit that nail right on the head, doctor."

"Ha! Very clever."

"Yes, I am – last screw, please. Ah, thank you." You tighten the final screw, satisfied with the much-neater looking plumbing.

There's a sigh from the doctor, and he says, "Looks better. Hope it works, too. Anytime you need screwing, I'm happy to help."

Your blood seems to freeze – did he  _really_  just say that? – and after a moment of complete surprise your limbs go limp. The heavy metal wrench slips from your fingers and with a mighty  _thunk_ , collides with your face. You let out a strangled cry of mingled pain and surprise, just as Dr. McCoy hisses a curse under his breath.

"What the – did you do that on purpose?" His strong hands are lifting your shoulders, and you blink through the stars flooding your vision to see his face, filled with concern and consternation, near to yours. Another  _thwak_  to your face causes you to cry out again – in his haste to lift you up, your head was banged on the edge of the cabinet.

"Ow," you say weakly, and lift a trembling hand to touch your forehead. There's a bump already forming, and you wince at the throbbing tenderness. Then the doctor's fingers are there, gently brushing over the bump, and there's a low growl from his chest.

"I thought you were getting less clumsy!"

"Apparently not," you snap back. With a sigh he hauls you to your feet. Dizziness rushes through you, and you lean into him for support. "Sorry," you manage to say. "My vision –"

"I can imagine. Sit here –" and you're slowly lowered into a chair.

"Are you nauseous? Feel like you're going to faint?" There's a sound of rustling and rummaging as he leaves your side, and you close your eyes, taking a deep breath.

"N-no."

"Good." His voice is near again, and you nearly shout in surprise as something very cold is pressed to your face. "Ice," Dr. McCoy says unhelpfully after a moment. "It will help with the swelling."

"Why, doctor, you positive caveman.  _Ice_? How very last century!"

"Don't sass me," he says tersely. "Can you feel all your fingers and toes? Any numbness?"

"Yes, and no."

You think you hear a sigh of relief, and his soft breath seems to gently swish the hair against your shoulder. You shiver – a warm, pleasant shiver.

"Chills?" he asks at once, noticing your slight movement.

"No!"

"Tell me if you feel any unusual symptoms – you could have a concussion."

"I've had a concussion before, doctor, and this is not it," you say irritably. "Really, I'm fine – better already!" And you force away his hand pressing the ice to your forehead. His brows are pinched and his expression filled with annoyance and concern. You force a smile to prove your point.

"I can give you something to help with the swelling," he says. "It may not help with the bruising, though – you're purple and green already."

"Perfect. I look great in purple and green."

Dr. McCoy straightens, and do you hear a choked back laugh as he searches through an overhead cabinet for a hypo? But his face remains stern as he presses the shot into your neck, and you wince at the prick.

"You'll be fine to return to work as long as you aren't concussed. I have no patience for clumsiness, you know," he says at last, standing to toss away the hypo. "It's only one small step from stupidity."

"You're too nice, doctor – really."

"Don't push it," he warns, glancing over at you with a raised brow. "I could keep you here to observe during the next shift."

"That sounds boring."

"It would be."

"Can I go, then?"

His eyes narrow. "Is the sink fixed?"

"Try it and see. Flip the valve first, otherwise it won't work."

Dr. McCoy does so, striding towards the sink and turning the faucet. A distant gurgle, and then water gushes forth. He shuts it off.

"Thank you," he says gruffly. "I can't tell you the hassle it's been to go next door to get water from there."

"You don't need to," you tell him cheerily, and stand, brushing down your trousers of imaginary dirt. Hastily you gather up your tools, including the offending wrench, and you zip closed your kit before standing tall. Well, not  _very_  tall, at least not next to Dr. McCoy. You've never stood next to him before; you've always been sitting to be examined, or, most recently, lying on the floor beneath a sink. He's gazing down at you, almost expectantly, and his eyes flit again to your forehead.

"I hope I wasn't distracting you," he says after a moment.

"Not at all," you lie. "Thanks for, um…screwing me." It was what you would say to a crewmate – would the doctor take the joke for what it was worth?

His lips twitch. "Anytime."

"Um – bye, then."

"Next time I see you, it had better not be here," Dr. McCoy says warningly. You roll your eyes with an undignified huff, and stride out of Medbay to search out your meal at last.


	5. Chapter 5

Shore leave approaches, and gossip is rife among the crew. In the undercurrents of giddy excitement, there are rumors – rumors of infamous nights had amongst the crew on shore leaves, reports of their very own Captain acting not-very-Captainy, and whispers of wrecked rooms and epic fistfights.

None of these things are particularly intriguing to you, but you can't help but get caught up in the excitement, especially in the loud, booming bar on the surface of Omulon-3. Another starship is on shore leave as well, and despite the music resonating through outdated speakers, it can scarcely be heard for the loud conversations and laughter as stories are swapped and rumors of the Federation and various planets exchanged.

With the air sticky and hot, and the smells of so many bodies in such a small space and stale alcohol burning your nose, you seek fresh air through a crooked door, leading out onto a terrace.

The bar is built on a cliffside, and far below you see a valley, dark in the night, spreading beyond. It's not inhabited, you've been told, but you don't know why. The three moons of Omulon-3 are shining both bright and distant above, and the din of chaos behind you grows faint.

"Not thinking of climbing on the railing, are you?"

You turn, your heart suddenly in your throat – Dr. McCoy is standing by the doors, gazing at you with one brow raised and a drink in one hand. You had seen him in the bar earlier, but it was rather surprising that he had…followed you? Or sought his own solace?

"Not today," you say. "I figure if I accidently fall off the cliff, I'll be left here for being such a klutz."

"Now, now, that's hardly complementary," the doctor says, and to your even greater surprise than his presence – he grins. "Not a klutz – a  _liability_."

"I'm flattered," you tell him dryly.

He moves to join you at the railing, and you slide away awkwardly as the sleeve of his leather jacket brushes against your arm. He gives no indication of the same discomfort, his eyes on the moons above as he takes a sip of his drink.

"So," he says at last. "How did the granddaughter of an earth studies professor in a rundown earth colony end up head plumber on a spaceship like the Enterprise?"

"That's a little personal, doctor," you reply after a moment, but you're smiling. He glances over at you, his dark eyes glittering.

"Leonard," he says.

"Um –"

"We're not on the Enterprise," he tells you. "I sure wouldn't mind forgetting being a doctor, and that Kirk asked me to study the effects of lithium rays on each of the four types of Romulon bacterial flu before we resume course. Call me Leonard."

You twist your fingers together, wishing your hands were a little less clammy. "Leonard," you say at last.

His eyes are still on you, and a moment later he shrugs. "You don't have to tell me why you're here," he tells you. "I suppose my chat-up lines are as old as I am. See, I'm an awful flirt, too."

You feel heat flush in your cheeks, and you turn away. "I was hoping you would forget that," you say in a small voice.

Leonard chuckles. "Forget? Oh, no. I remember everything that's been said by my heavily-medicated patients."

"That sounds…" you think for a moment, eyes on the valley below. "Equally disturbing and hilarious."

"Oh, yes. And anyways, you didn't threaten to have me drawn and quartered like Kirk usually does, so I certainly didn't mind. I didn't mind then, and I don't mind now."

Your eyes are drawn back to Leonard's face, and his gaze holds onto yours intensely. You swallow, unsure of what he's saying and what he means. "Cygnia Minor," you blurt at last. "My gran taught at the capital city university there."

"Oh?" his brows lift.

"My parents died when I was young," you say, tearing your eyes away to focus on your hands instead. "My mother caught type-III Romulon flu when I was only three, and my dad died of alcohol poisoning when I was twelve. That's why I was raised by my gran."

"Type-III?" Leonard asks, his brows drawing together. "Before the vaccination was approved for use, then."

"Yeah."

"And…" he starts to speak again, but pauses. "I noticed you've only had water tonight. Because of your father?"

"Yep." You draw in a deep breath, and look up – before turning to Leonard. "You…noticed?" you asked in confusion.

He shrugs. "I try to notice which crew members are most likely to end up in Medbay from overdose or some alcohol-induced accident."

You try not to laugh, but a smile grows on your face. "The one time I won't be injured," you say.

Leonard grins, and your cheeks feel warm again. "I appreciate your thoughtfulness."

"Well, it's more self-preservation, really – I hear the chief medical officer of the Enterprise insists on sidelining any crew members that get injured too often. He's quite crochety, you know."

"Oh, I know."

But the shine of his eyes while he continued to smile made you wonder if you were being unfair, calling him crochety…

"What did your grandmother teach?" Leonard asks after another quiet moment.

"History, mainly. But her real passion was history of Earth music – she actually campaigned to the university dean for decades to have it included as a subject."

"Ah. That explains…well, that explains you, I suppose."

"Gran taught me how to play every instrument she could get her hands on," you tell him with a smile. "And as a professor, it was…a lot. From Earth  _and_  every alien world you can think of."

"I bet." He smiles, and adds, "I didn't realize there was a musical prodigy climbing through the pipes of the Enterprise."

"Hardly a prodigy! Being able to play a Mkrallian hububatu isn't very  _useful_ , you know. Even if I can do it blindfolded and upside down, which is how it's traditionally done during the skrajjler festival."

Leonard chuckles. "That sounds more entertaining than most diplomatic missions to Mkrall. We'll have to take you with us, next time."

"I'm only a plumber, Len. No diplomatic missions for me, hububatu or otherwise." You barely realize lapsing into a nickname for him – but Leonard sounds so…fussy. And whatever this doctor is, he's not fussy. But he doesn't seem to notice (or mind), and he's smiling. You flush a little more (all while wishing you would stop blushing), and look down again towards the valley.

"Anyway – my gran died two years ago. She wanted me to stay and teach in her place, but…I suppose I wanted to see something besides a university. I wanted to see the stars."

"The stars aren't so great," Leonard says, and you see his lips curl into a wry smile as he tips his drink in your direction. "Too many diseases to die from."

"Haven't gotten a disease yet," you reply cheerily.

"And yet – you seem to be getting messed up plenty." He sips from his drink, though his eyes never leave yours. There's a sharp ache in your gut suddenly, and your smile feels stiff.

"I think you've had too much to drink, doctor – your compliments are getting positively ludicrous."

"Wasn't a compliment."

"Even worse, then."

For a single, magnetizing moment, you sense that he's leaning towards you. The light from the three moons is shining in his face, and you tilt away, feeling torn, just as the door leading from the bar is thrown open. Thrumming music and shrieks break the peaceful night air as a few figures stumble out onto the terrace, and you straighten where you stand.

"I'm returning to the ship," you say. "Good night, doctor."

"Leonard, remember?" he tells you before you can turn away, and you can hear his soft voice even over the noise. He smiles, and adds, "It would be nice to have a friend that doesn't order me to transport to planets I'd rather avoid."

"How about a friend that ends up in Medbay every week for a completely preventable injury?"

Leonard laughs aloud, surprising you. With humor in his features, he's not the grumpy doctor you've come to know and even like a little bit – but a man you would  _like_  to know, and much better. Hurriedly you squash these feelings – he's the ship's doctor! It hardly mattered how he was looking at you…how his eyes were glinting…

"I'll have to make do with what I get," he says as you turn to leave through the crowd. You glance back, hesitating for only a moment.

"Good night, Len."


	6. Chapter 6

The universe was evidently feeling miffed that you so confidently declared to Dr. Leonard McCoy that you hadn’t gotten a disease yet, for no less than two weeks following your foolish words, you were back in Medbay, coughing and sneezing as the nurse showing you in gives you a wide berth.

 

“It may be a while to wait,” she says, already halfway out the door as she glances back sympathetically. “We’re a bit busy.”

 

“Take your time,” you tell her hoarsely. You certainly aren’t going anywhere, so why be impatient?

 

But over an hour passes before the hiss of the door opening jolts you out of a stupor, reclining back on the examination table as you struggled to breathe through your stuffy nose. The doctor is looking, to your weak consciousness, madder than a hornet, and he throws down his PADD on a counter, crossing his arms and glaring down at you.

 

“Not you, too,” he snaps.

 

“Eh – what?”

 

“Half of the security crew is out with some alien disease. It’s been transmitted sexually.”

 

“But I haven’t –” you begin to say, but you clamp your mouth shut, your face feeling hot.

 

“Someone got it during the last shore leave, and it spreads like wildfire,” Leonard says, his brows pinched angrily. “I wouldn’t have thought it of _you_ –”

 

“Well, that’s not really your problem,” you retort, now drawn from your sick haze. “You’re the doctor; you treat illness, not decide who should or shouldn’t have some disease.”

 

“It’s a _bit_ my concern. Medbay hasn’t been this full since – well, it’s never been this full! The bacteria are warping, and –” He stops here, his jaw clenching. He runs a hand through his hair, messing it entirely (but endearingly, you think beneath your annoyance), and he gives a long sigh. “Never you mind,” he says at last, his voice terse. “Let me guess your symptoms – numbness in your chest, green saliva, and hot feet.”

 

“None of those things, actually,” you say coolly. “Stuffed nose, difficulty breathing, coughing, and fatigue.”

 

Leonard blinks at you. “What?”

 

“Stuffed nose, difficulty breathing, and fatigue.”

 

“No, I heard that – you…don’t have numbness in your chest?”

 

“None.”

 

“Green saliva?”

 

“Haven’t seen any.”

 

“Hot feet?”  


“Only when I’m standing near the boilers.”

 

His shoulders slacken, and for the first time, you see weariness in the lines of his face – how many hours had he been treating the ill, you wonder? An urge to reach out and grab his hand nearly overcomes you, but you quickly twist your fingers in your skirt.

 

“I’m sorry,” Leonard says at last. “You’re right – it’s not my place to judge.”

 

“I accept your apology,” you tell him, and break off into a fit of coughing. It’s brief, and a moment later you ask in a croak, “On the condition that you can give me _something_ to take care of this…”

 

“Oh – right, of course.” He starts, and pulls a tricorder from his belt. “Lie down for a moment.”

 

You do so, sighing in relief – it was more difficult to sit up than you realized. The drone of the tricorder makes you yawn, and you blink sleepily at the ceiling as the doctor gives you a full-body scan. There’s a whizzing sound, and Leonard grumbles as he shakes the tricorder.

 

“It’s getting overheated,” he says with a frown. “If people would just stop having sex with aliens –”

 

“But where’s the fun in that,” you wonder with another yawn. To your bleary surprise, he’s smiling when the tricorder is buzzing up your neck. It whizzes again, and then shuts off entirely. His smile disappears, and with a curse he tosses it down onto the table next to you.

 

“Do I need to come back later?” you ask with a sniffle.

 

“No. Luckily for you, I’m trained to work without a tricorder.” His fingers gently press into your neck, and you flinch. “Tender?” he asks.

 

“Yes.”

 

“I thought so. It sounds to me like you have a common earth cold.”

 

“Common?” you gape. “This feels nothing like a common cold!”

 

“Well, we’re in space. Messes up everything.”

 

You give a sigh. “I’m beginning to not like space so much.”

 

Leonard laughs then – a real laugh. You stare at him, surprised to see dimples around his mouth. My, oh my. It was fortunate for you that he didn’t laugh much, otherwise there would be more clumsy women around Medbay, you think. “You’re figuring it out,” he says, his dark eyes shining.

 

“Thank you,” you say stupidly.

 

“You won’t thank me for this treatment,” the doctor tells you, and turns away to fetch a hypo from a nearby cabinet. “It’ll knock you out for eight hours or more.”

 

“Then what’s the point –”

 

“Your symptoms will be gone when you wake up, and you’ll be fit as a fiddle,” Leonard interrupts, his brow lifting as he holds up the hypo to your eye level. “Take it back to your bunk, get comfortable, and give it to yourself. An arm will do. You’ll be out in less than thirty seconds.”

 

Your eyes widen, and you shake your head emphatically. “I can’t.”

 

“Can’t what?”

 

“Give myself a hypo!”

 

“Why not?”

 

You shudder at the very thought as he frowns.

 

“Because you don’t know how?” he asks. “Or –?” 

 

“Because it freaks me out!”

 

Leonard blinks slowly down at you, his lips pressed tightly together. “So you get sick at the sight of your own blood, and you’re afraid to give yourself a shot.”

 

“Uh, yes!” you say, feeling annoyed at his disbelief. “Can’t you send a nurse?”

 

“No. All the nurses on duty are monitoring the tenculum rotovirititis idiots in long-term care.”

 

“–Oh.” And you give a violent sneeze, half-lifting your body from the exam table. After a sniffle, when you can speak again, you ask, “Can’t you give it to me here?”

 

“No. We don’t have any empty beds and I’m not letting you pass out in the halls.” Leonard watches you closely a moment more, and then with a sigh he strides for the door. His head sticks out, glancing around. Your eyes fill with burning tears, as his form returns to your side.

 

“I’ll take you,” he says in a low voice.

 

“But –” you protest weakly. “You’re the doctor! You can’t leave for _this_ –”

 

“I’m in charge, so I certainly can. Anything to get out of Medbay right now.” He grasps your hand, pulling you into a sitting position. Your head pounds, and tenderly you touch your temples as you wince.

 

“Wow, I’m so flattered,” you say irritably, squeezing your eyes shut.

 

“Now, I wouldn’t sneak out of Medbay for just anyone, you know,” Leonard says. “Can you stand?”

 

“Yes, yes…” You hold tightly to his arm as you gingerly step off the examination table. It takes a moment for your head to clear, but you manage a smile at last. “I can walk by myself.”

 

“Sure you can – and I’m a Klingon’s uncle. Let’s go.”

 

Embarrassed as you are, it’s a strange comfort to lean on Leonard – blast, you can’t think of him as Dr. McCoy anymore, what was _with_ that? He doesn’t hurry you along, and even pauses when you have another fit of coughing in a hallway. It hurts your head to think about, but you try – you’ve never seen Leonard treat anyone else this way. It…it was nice.

 

“Here,” you say in a rasp at last, and you punch in the code for your room. He helps you through, and the door whizzes shut behind you.

 

“Wow,” Leonard says after a moment, while you’re furiously poking buttons to calm down the harsh lighting. “You really do like music.”

 

“I don’t know why you’re so surprised,” you say grumpily. Did he come to give you medicine, or ogle at your walls?

 

“Is that – is that an original 1987 Appetite for Destruction tour poster? Signed by… _Izzy Stradlin_?”

 

“Yeah,” you say wearily, and as his hold on you has slackened, you sit upon your small couch with a sigh. “Certified original. Gran paid big bucks for it. I couldn’t let it sit in storage.”

 

“And –” There’s a slight sucking of breath as Leonard continues to gaze at your wall, which was covered in…well, your favorite stuff. “A holographic poster for The Chan-Chavias Galaxy Tour of 2109? There were only five-hundred of those even made!”

 

“It’s original, too. I didn’t know you were such a fan,” you tell him, leaning back on the couch. “Now, about that hypo –”

 

“What’s this?” he interrupts, pointing.

 

“A duplicate of a 6th century Germanic Trossingen lyre.”

 

“And this?”

 

“Lardic-style mouth-flute – impossible to play with only one mouth. But it’s nice decoration. Leonard, please –” You give a huge sneeze, and he at last turns back to you. Should you not have called him by his name? You were on the ship, after all… “Sorry,” you manage with a sniff. “Doctor.”

 

“No, it’s okay. Hey, it’s going to be a long 8-10 hours; you may want to change out of your uniform.”

 

“Yes, doctor.” You heave yourself back to your feet and trudge to the little bathroom.

 

“Leonard,” he calls after you. “I like it when you call me that better.”

 

“Not on duty,” you poke your head out of the bathroom to say. “I don’t need to get written up for familiarity with superiors.”

 

“No one would even notice. Anyways, you’re a chief officer, too.”

 

“Hydraulics is only a sub-department of engineering,” you counter, peeling off your uniform with a happy sigh. “Scotty is still over me.”

 

“Yeah, whatever,” you hear him grumble. You smile to yourself, and blow your nose quickly before exiting in your recreation clothes. Leonard glances over at you, and when he sees your lingering smile – he smiles, too.

 

“Thirty seconds and blackout,” he reminds you. “So you’d better get comfortable.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

You crawl into your bed happily, watching Leonard out of the corner of your eye as he pulls the hypo from his belt. He pauses, and frowns.

 

“What is it?” you ask.

 

“Forgot my PADD. I was going to log what I’m giving you and mark you absent for the next shifts, but it’ll have to wait until I get back to Medbay.”

 

“I think I left mine at my desk,” you admit. “But I don’t really care right now.”

 

“Well,” Leonard says, sitting on the edge of the bed beside you as you offer him your arm. “I’ll have someone drop it by for you.”

 

“Why, thank you, doctor,” you say with a smile. “You’d make a great yeoman!”

 

“Very funny.”

 

“I thought it was.”

 

He smiles again (again? This must be a record), though this time it’s rather tight. “I’m not missing the constant alerts,” he says. “Maybe I’ll have to forget it more often.”

 

“How very sneaky, doctor.”

 

“You’re not on duty. No need to be formal.”

 

“But _you_ are.”

 

“Without my PADD? This is like a vacation!” The expression on his face of sardonic enthusiasm makes you laugh, which turns into a cough. “I’m sure Medbay is doing fine without me,” Leonard adds. “The patients aren’t violent, which is a nice change from most alien diseases. They’re just…limp.”

 

“What did you say they had again?” you ask curiously.

 

“Tenculum Rotovirititis. It originated on the planet Tenculus – one of the crew members on the other ship must have come from there. Whoever caught it from the Enterprise must have been really drunk,” he adds with a grin. “Tencars have tentacles, and from what I hear, they’re a bit…painful.”

 

“Eugh!” Despite yourself you laugh again. “It’s – it’s not a fatal disease, is it?” you ask after a moment. “Perhaps I shouldn’t be laughing –”

 

“Not fatal,” Leonard assures you, his eyes glinting as he absently strokes your hand. Are you blushing? Probably – but the flush of illness is hopefully disguising that. “But they’ll have to wait until we restock on Tenculus mud-aloe, because that’s the only cure in the universe.”

 

“Oooh, Tenculus is on the other side of the galaxy!”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

You can’t stop a smile from forming, and before thinking you say, “No wonder you’re so irritable today.”

 

He chuckles, which surprises you, before he drops your hand. “Less irritated now that I’m somewhere else than Medbay,” he says, picking up your elbow instead and lifting up the hypo. “Ready to get better?”

 

“I – I guess.” You would have preferred to keep talking, but you smile so that your disappointment doesn’t show. “You’ll be needed back in Medbay, I’m sure. It’s probably in flames without you.”

 

“I sure hope not,” he says with a touch of his familiar grumble. “Think of the incident reports I’d have to file!”

 

“Well, you seem to me like the type that just _loves_ reports.”

 

“Don’t tease, now,” Leonard says, and though his voice is fierce, his eyes are soft. “Here I thought it was nice of me to relieve you of having to administer your own hypo.”

 

“It was very nice of you,” you smile. “Thank you.”

 

“It’s no problem.” With some strain in his expression, he glances downward, pressing the hypo into your skin. “Sweet dreams,” he adds, and the hiss of medication sounds. Immediately your vision blurs.

 

“Only of you, Len,” you think you mumble, and you remember no more.


	7. Chapter 7

When you wake, the first thing you notice is that you can breathe. The second is that your headache is quite gone, and the third – on the table next to your bed is your PADD, fully charged, and a bunch of…folded paper flowers with a hand-written note attached.

 _I forgot to tell you – drink a minimum of 48 fl oz. of water in the next 24 hours. I still don't have any room in Medbay for you to be admitted for dehydration._ It was signed,  _L_. A messy postscript added,  _Sorry about the flowers, I hope you don't mind. I get bored during double-shifts and didn't want to throw them away. I'd have to write myself up for wasting resources._

"How very old-fashioned," you murmur to yourself, picking up one of the flowers to examine it closely. "Why, Leonard, if I thought it even possible I might think you were half in love with me!"

Your next shift is beginning in less than twenty minutes, so you wash up quickly and dress in a clean uniform before rushing off to the engine rooms. One of Leonard's folded flowers is tucked in your PADD case.

The next days, you don't get a single injury, and so you don't see him – and you almost wish you would. But not enough to 'accidently' fall off a walkway or any other method your imagination supplies when you're bored.

Evidently there was no need to manipulate the situation, for not two weeks later you were startled by Leonard himself approaching your desk, which is tucked in the rear of the engine rooms nearest the cisterns. You've been logging your readings of the latest water inspection, humming absently to yourself, and when he appears you nearly knock over a beaker of water with your elbow as you hurry to stand.

"Hi," he says with an astonishing and very handsome smile.

"Ah – hi."

"I have this sample of water from Dectarus-VIII that I'm supposed to analyze, but I was thinking that your equipment might be more efficient than mine." He holds up a vial of murky water, which you stare at as your mind hurries to catch up.

"Oh, of course!"

Leonard pulls up a chair beside your desk as you hurriedly (and clumsily) reset your composition meter. The machine whirrs as it begins the analyzation, and you glance over at the doctor.

"You could have sent a message," you say. "No need to come all the way down here."

"It was good exercise. Besides, you never came for your post-illness checkup."

You frown. "Um…I didn't know I was supposed to."

His mouth splits into a smile. "It's not required in every case. But I thought I'd come and see how you're doing, anyway."

"It's been thirteen days since my last illness, and two months since my last accident. I think I'm doing  _very_  well," you reply with your own smile. The machine beeps, finished.

"How much sestinide is in it?" he asks, the faintest crease to his brow.

"13.7%," you tell him, glancing at the readings. "Pretty high."

"I thought as much."

You pull out the vial, and sprinkle a few drops of the water onto a tray, beaming on your handheld microscope and squinting to examine the microbes.

"Where did you say this water was from?" you ask.

"Dectarus-VIII."

"What type of planet is it?"

"Class H."

"Ah. Well – looks fairly normal for where it came from. Don't drink it," you add with a grin as you flick off your microscope.

"Don't need to drink it to get messed up," Leonard says with a twitch in his jaw. "Some security guard washed his face with it in some ungodly jungle – exacerbated his preexisting psoriasis like crazy. If this was the eighteenth century, he'd lose his ears at the very least. Arms if it travelled fast enough."

"If this was the eighteenth century, he'd probably already be dead," you point out, closing the cap of the vial. "Here –" You hold it out to him, and he reaches out to take it, his fingers closing over yours. You twitch, blinking dumbly as his eyes meet yours. A delicious churning of your stomach, and his lips lift into a wry half-smile.

"I'll send an electronic report to you," you say quickly as your cheeks warm. "And suggest to the captain that we hold a remedial water safety course required for all crew members."

"That's very cruel of you."

"I'm only trying to keep your workload light, doctor."

Leonard chuckles, tugging the vial out of your limp fingers before standing tall. "Thank you," he says with a nod. "Would've taken me three times as long."

"Anytime," you say, a little breathlessly.

And then – and then! – before you can react, before you even think that  _he_  is thinking – he leans down and plants a quick kiss on one of your flaming cheeks. When he pulls back, there's a strange expression in his dark eyes – a mixture of surprise and hesitation and…regret? He swallows, and says nothing.

And then he's gone.

The remedial water safety course is a moderate success – at least, it seems to be, for there are no more alien-water induced incidents for the next few months. The captain must have been impressed by you, for one day you are summoned to a briefing room.

"The turbines on Flaegr are broken," Captain Kirk informs both you and Scotty, from where he's sitting across from the pair of you at a table. "Since it's a penal colony, they haven't the expertise to fix it themselves – they need someone with extensive knowledge of that type of turbine."

You would have to be pretty darn stupid not to guess where he was going.  _I'm about to be left at a penal colony_ , you think dizzyingly to yourself. Leonard's threat had come true – and you haven't even been to Medbay for an injury in weeks!

"Can you do this?" the captain asks you.

"Yes, Captain."

"You'll beam down after the next shift. Scotty will go with you for the initial inspections, and he'll return to beam down whatever equipment you might need. You'll be there about a month – from what I hear, it's not a quick fix. By then we'll have cycled around, and can pick you up again," here the captain offers you a slight smile, "We don't want to be without our Chief Hydraulics Officer for too long."

Four weeks wasn't  _so_  bad, you try to convince yourself once you're dismissed from the briefing room. Scotty is patting your arm sympathetically.

"At least you have time to pack your things and get ready," he says. "Most of the time  _I_  don't even get that."

You return to your cabin to gather your thoughts – your shift is over, anyways. You sit on your bed, staring at the wall with a churning mess of emotion in your chest. Then your PADD dings. Several times. With a sigh you pick it up, scrolling through. _Report to Medbay for a complete physical and appropriate vaccinations, 0700. Report to Commander Spock for complete briefing, 0900. Report to transporter room, 2300_.

Well, no one was wasting any time. You were due in Medbay in an hour.

Despite your reluctance to be left alone at a water plant for the next four weeks, your breath catches to think of seeing Leonard again, even if it would end in a goodbye. It was better than nothing, right? But when you're shown to an examination room for your appointment, it's not Leonard that comes in, but a nurse you don't recognize.

"Hello," she says with a smile, her PADD tucked under her arm. "I'm Nurse Aric. I'll be doing your physical today."

Numbly you blink, and then nod.

In the time it takes for your examination, you've gone from disappointing apathy to real annoyance. Whatever the reason Leonard wasn't there, you didn't like it. But even less you liked the thought of not seeing him for a month.

You're given the all-clear, and after a few booster vaccinations, you're dismissed from Medbay. You linger in the front room for a bit, wondering where Leonard was, if he had an office, and if you could see him – when the man himself strides out of a side room, absorbed in his PADD.

"Len – Doctor!" you say.

He doesn't look up.

"Len! Leonard!" You keep your voice in a hiss so as not to attract attention, but either you're too quiet or he's ignoring you on purpose. He continues walking obliviously towards the exit, and with a huff of frustration you stomp out after him, leaving the too-quiet Medbay behind. " _Len!_ "

You hasten your steps, and catch the elbow of his blue sleeve just before he turns a corner. Leonard turns to you, and the expression in his eyes as he looks down at you is…convoluted. You don't understand it at all.

"What's going on?" you say at last, keeping your voice low. His back is against the wall, and he certainly looks like it – metaphorically, that is. His lips are tightly pressed together for a moment before he responds.

"Physicals before the preliminary crew is beamed down to Flaegr," he tells you. "What did you think?"

"Don't be sarcastic," you snap. "Why did Nurse Aric do my exam?"

"Well – " The hesitation is visible in his face.

"Don't you get all wishy-washy, Leonard McCoy," you jab a finger in his face, feeling your temper heat your blood as you watch his eyes flicker around. He was going to try to avoid this – whatever it was. "I thought you were my overseeing physician!"

"Well, no," Leonard says, and his voice is strained. "Not anymore."

You're too stunned to reply at first, but the words come fast once you overcome your surprise. "Not anymore? What the – you've treated me for everything so far! You actually  _know_  me, and not Nurse Aric – shouldn't you perform my exam, since you know my normal better than a nurse reading a few notes from some scrawled report?"

" _Several_  scrawled reports," he says, and his jaw is tightening. "And anyways, it's just an exam."

"Bloody –"

Leonard's eyes dart around you, and as a pair of crewmen pass by he leans close to hiss, "It wouldn't be appropriate, okay?" You stare, his meaning still as clear as mud. Then he swallows, clenching his PADD in one white-knuckled hand.

"Not appropriate?" you shoot back. "Why, because we're friends? That doesn't seem to stop you from hauling Captain Kirk to Medbay for every little thing –"

"It's different!"

"Bullcrap!"

His eyes are glinting brightly as frustration heats his words. "It's just an exam, okay? Not a daggum – listen, I'm a doctor, not a monk! I can't just – I can't –"

But you cut him off mid-sentence, not at all interested in hearing the rest of his indistinct argument. Uncaring that you were in a public corridor, that it was a busy part of the day, that – well, uncaring of  _everything_  that would logically point out that your intended action was pretty darn foolish, you stand on the tips of your toes, pulling Leonard's face to yours and kissing him fiercely.

It shut him up.

There's a clatter of something falling on the floor – oh, his PADD, of course. That was why his arms were wrapping around your waist…he was strong and unyielding, and your heartbeat quickens. You pull away slightly, thinking perhaps you had come on too strong, but Leonard chases you, seeking out your lips again.

You hear a snicker of laughter somewhere nearby, and ignore it. Languid, delicious heat is rushing through you, and as far as you were concerned – the Enterprise was empty except for you and him.

"There are procedures," he murmurs into your ear, sometime later. "Doctors aren't supposed to – I mean, we can't…" A nibble on your earlobe, and your skin breaks out in goosebumps. "Can't do our own families or the like," he grunts at last. "No one over whom our judgement would be impaired or compromised…part of the,  _ah_ , Hippocratic Oath."

"I compromise your judgement?" you manage to say, and your voice is hoarse. His hands are trailing up your back.

"Mmhnff."

"You…can't be my doctor?"

"Nuh-unfh."

"Well  _that_  ruins everything!"

Leonard loosens his hold on you, lifting his head with surprise. His eyes are bright – uncannily bright as he gazes down at you, and his ears are bright red. You bite back a smile, trailing your hands up his arms and feeling the twitch of his muscles.

"Everything?" he repeats stupidly.

"Well – I'm afraid that I need constant attention and care, you see – I seem to have the worst luck. I thought –" You shrug delicately, enjoying the look of consternation on Leonard's face. "I thought that having  _you_  around would take care of that."

"You little rascal! You don't really –"

A giggle bursts from your lips, and his expression clears.

"You  _are_  teasing, I knew it –" And for your joke Leonard leans down with a scowl and kisses you again, and again…and it doesn't  _really_  feel like he's that annoyed. Your fingers run though his thick hair, your mission to the penal colony completely forgotten…for the moment.

* * *

You drag yourself reluctantly from bed at 2200 hours, and wish yet again that you hadn't been given this assignment. The thorough briefing you had received several hours earlier had not made you particularly enthusiastic (two weeks was a short estimate for fixing the turbines, you think), and Leonard…and Leonard…

He's much more pleasant to think about, and you sing to yourself as you wash your face and arrange your hair for the day, already dressed in a crisp uniform –

_Some bright morning, when this life is over  
_ _I'll fly away..._

There's a chirp, and you hear Leonard's voice through the security speaker. "It's me. Can I come in?"

You graciously allow him in, giving him a silly smile as he steps through the door and closes it behind him with an elbow. He's carrying a bottle and a satchel in his hands. If you're not mistaken, his smile is a little silly, too.

"You're up early," you observe.

"Haven't slept yet – I was on duty last shift. Are you all packed?"

"Yes, I'm almost ready. I have to head down in about ten minutes."

"I wasn't sure what you drink in the mornings – or what passes for mornings – so I brought you ice water," Leonard says. "It'll give you a better boost than caffeine, without the side effects."

"Why, thank you, doctor," you say with a smile, and you accept the water. "You're very considerate of my health."

"Someone has to be," he says, and his brows pinch together. "I brought a Medkit for you as well. Anything you might need during the next month – I don't trust that water plant to be properly equipped."

"Put it on my bags," you tell him. "And then kiss me one last time before I have to go."

He quirks a brow. "Yes, ma'am." And his arms wrap around you, his head tilting downwards…

You step onto the transporter platform in a daze, barely returning Scotty's greeting. You haven't stopped smiling yet, and catching Leonard's eyes from across the control panel (he came along on the pretense of speaking to the captain), you feel your face turn hot. He smiles, and the captain lifts his head, looks at Leonard, opens his mouth, and then with a confused expression his eyes flit to you –

"Energize!"

And the world dissolves around you.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to warn ya'll in the notes that my time skips are badly done. Well, here it is. A bad time skip. Also, this is the final chapter, so please let me know if you've enjoyed my story :)

_A Month Later._

The engine rooms of the Enterprise had never looked more like home.

With a day or two you feel back to normal, skipping and singing 'round the pipes as if you hadn't spent the last month in near isolation. The water the pipes gush and gurgle to welcome you, and the heating units buzz happily as you roam around, seeing that the systems were up to par after your absence.

You skip down the walkways, singing loudly for Scotty's benefit as your voice echoes in the massive chamber,

_Gin a body meet a body_  
_Comin' through the rye_  
_Gin a body kiss a body  
_ _Need a body cry?_

_Every lassie has her laddie,_  
_None they say have I…_  
_But all the lads they smile at me  
_ _When comin' thro the rye…_

You're drawing nearer the control area, and with a flutter in your heart you see a familiar figure waiting at the bottom of the stairs, arms crossed and attempting to look severe. But his expression is tempered by the slight smile on his lips. You've scarcely seen each other since your return. It's been far too long.

Holding his gaze with a smile of your own, you bounce down the steps. On about the third step from the bottom, your boot slips, and you teeter, arms flailing – Leonard's eyes widen, and his arms uncross just in time to catch you from crashing into him.

"Thanks, doc," you say breathlessly, straightening after a moment, trying to calm your racing heart. You stand on the last step, so as to better meet his eyes, which are flitting over you as his hands keep a firm grip on your upper arms.

"Are you hurt?" he asks urgently.

"Not at all. It's a good thing you were here."

"Yes, it is," Leonard retorts. "Otherwise I'd be patching you up in Medbay, instead of taking you to Tenculus for a night out."

"A night out? Why, doctor, are you asking me on a date?" you ask with a smirking smile.

A single brow lifts loftily. "Don't act so surprised," he says crossly.

"Tenculus?" you interrupt. "So you've gotten your mud-aloe to treat the – um, tenculus rotovirius patients?"

"Tenculum rotovirititis. And yes; they are all on the mend, which is why I have the time to take you out for once."

"No more Medbay dates?" you tease. "I can fake an injury, if I need to –"

"Oh, no, you can't. Not if I can help it," he says in a grumble, though his eyes are shining. "So, is that a yes? You'll come?"

"I wouldn't miss it." And to prove it, you wrap your arms around his neck, rather enjoying your increased height for the ease of kissing him. His arms wrap around your waist, holding you tightly and lifting you slightly into the air. His clean scent is overwhelming…it had been a  _long_  month…

A crackle sounds on the overhead. "Attention Engineering Crew," says a very stern and very Scottish voice. "This is a reminder that there is to be no snogging on the floor or on duty. I repeat,  _no_  snogging."

Leonard tears his lips away from yours with a scowl. "That bastard –" he starts.

"He's only trying to rile you up," you tell him cheerily.

"It's working."

"I think you should give Scotty your biggest smile when we pass him. He won't know what to say."

Leonard's lips curve upwards at this; he's still holding you close, and leans forward to kiss the tip of your nose. "Fine, then," he says. "But it'll be difficult." His hands rove to your waist, and with a gasp of surprise you're lifted into the air and swung from the stairs to the ground. "I thought it safest," he says by way of explanation while your head is spinning slightly.

Together you walk hand-in-hand from the control chamber, and passing the panel, where Scotty is sitting in his chair with a smug grin on his face as you pass him. Beside you, Leonard smiles a huge smile, giving Scotty a cheery wave with a,

"See you tonight! It'll be  _fun_."

Scotty's jaw drops.

"You didn't invite Scotty on our date, did you?" you ask anxiously, once the pair of you enter the brightly-lit hallway.

"No," Leonard says with a little laugh. "It's his assigned night off as well. See, I was asking him what sort of place you'd like best for a date –"

You are  _very_  impressed by this.

"– and he mentioned he might be there as well. That's all."

"So, where are you taking me?" You try to keep your voice casual, but it doesn't work. Leonard gives you a glance, his eyes glinting.

"You'll have to see, now won't you?"

"A surprise? First you ask my boss where you should take me, and then you make it a surprise – I'm beginning to think you're a regular old romantic."

"I'm an old-fashioned boy, it's true," he says with a smile.

"Then I should have had you take me out  _before_  any kissing –"

"Well, some circumstances require adjustment," Leonard tells you reasonably, and he gives your hand a quick squeeze. You've arrived at your cabin, and he leans down to kiss you quickly. "I'll be back to pick you up in a half-hour. Is that enough time?"

You nod, unable to keep from smiling. "And lucky for you, you don't even have to meet my father tonight."

"Little rascal!" was his parting jibe, and with a smile he continues on down the hallway as you glide into your cabin in a distinct haze.

The Tencars of Tenculus are a welcoming sort to outsiders (you remember the Tentaculum Rotovirititis). The city where the crew members are allowed their shore leave is busy with a variety of life and buildings. It's loud, it's crowded, and you love it.

Leonard draws you into an earth-style bar called the Fleetwood, with neon lights of guitars and the Starfleet emblem blazoned all over the front. It's obviously a favorite of starships, for it seems that nearly everyone there is wearing an insignia somewhere; on hats, on skirts, on boots. Not very appropriate, but you smile all the same.

"The Fleetwood," you muse aloud as the pair of you are shown to a table. "How very punny."

"I know. I hate puns," Leonard says with a grimace, pulling his chair close to yours. "But they say it has excellent music."

"I guess we'll see."

For the moment, it's a bass-heavy pop song playing, and there are people dancing near an empty stage and massive subwoofers. The atmosphere is lively and electric, and you tap your foot in time with the music. You don't realize how distracted you are until you feel Leonard's fingers brushing against the ends of your hair.

"I've never seen you with your hair down," he comments, and he's so near that you feel his breath against the skin of your cheek. "It's lovely."

"Why, thank you," you say with a smile. "Dress code in engineering requires all hair be worn back, you know."

"Scotty's told me the story of the girl he saw scalped on his first assignment probably a dozen times, and it doesn't get any easier to stomach."

You laugh. "It  _is_  a favorite of his. I think I could recite it from memory."

"Don't!" Leonard says quickly, though he's smiling. "Anyway, I didn't bring you here to talk about Scotty."

"Then chat me up however you like, doctor. I'm ready and willing."

"Let me get you a drink first," he says, nodding towards the bar. "Just water?"

"A Green Gorbler will do, virgin."

With a grin he gets up from his seat, and you watch his back as he winds through crowd, liking the way his broad shoulders parted between bodies. You rest your chin in your hand with a dreamy smile, and it's to that scene that Leonard returns several minutes later, hands full, and looking his usual irritable self.

"It's busier than I expected," he said with a scowl, setting the drinks on the table. But his expression softens, and a wry smile curls his lips as he settles in back next to you. "You're a sight to return to, I'll tell you that."

"Such flattery!" you sip your drink. "Now, what is –"

You're drowned out by the screeching of the subwoofers. A man had climbed on the stage, waving away the protests from the dancers at the music abruptly ceases.

"It's karaoke night, so don't get your panties in a wad," he snaps at the group in general. "You knew that! I warned you!" A pause. "No, I can't delay it. This is the mayor's favorite night and he'll be here any minute! So volunteer to perform or find another place to gyrate."

The speakers squeaked again, and the lights on the stage were changed to a lime green, and you blink at the sudden brightness. The man returns with a battered looking microphone.

"Karaoke night? What is this, the 20th century?" Leonard gripes. "I should've known – just my luck."

"Oh, I know!" you say eagerly. "Watching karaoke is a favorite pastime of mine. There's this great place on Cygnia Minor that I used to go to all the time when I was younger. My gran used to take me."

"Of course she did."

A stumbling, green-skined humanoid was grasping the microphone to the encouragement of her friends. Lively beats shook the room, and her whining voice cracked through the sound system.

Leonard groans aloud. "It's going to be a long night," he says. "Want to go somewhere else?"

"Eh?" you're smiling, recognizing the song (of course) and loving it. Your fingers are tapping along as you hum under your breath, and you don't realize he's watching you with a smile until you feel his hand slip under the table and cover yours.

"Scotty was right," he tells you, smile threatening. You don't hesitate to grin at him.

"What can I say? I'm a simple woman. I like bad, outdated karaoke, a drink with no alcohol, and a fully-trained emergency response doctor for my date."

He laughs at this. "Not so simple!"

"Hush, I'm trying to listen to the music."

Whatever reluctance Leonard still harbors, he's the perfect gentlemen as the evening wears on – and he seems to enjoy wincing and groaning during each poor performance (which according to him, is every single one), and between your excitement and his mock-grumpiness, there are many laughs.

And then Scotty mounts the stage.

You hadn't realized he was there; he must have been at the bar. Drink in hand, he wails at the top of his lungs into the microphone,

 _And I would walk 500 miles_  
_And I would walk 500 more_  
_Just to be the man_  
_Who walks a thousand miles  
__To knock down at your door_ …

"Wow," Leonard says. There's an odd sort of discomfort on his face, which makes you grin.

"It's his favorite song," you tell him, nudging his shoulder with yours. "Sings it all the time. It's not so bad when he's sober."

"I'll…take your word for it."

Leonard cringes through the rest of the song, though you hum along. After some unenthusiastic applause at the end, Scotty struts from the stage. Feeling mischievous you turn, covering Len's hand with yours.

"Are you going to sing for me?" you ask with a smile.

He blinks. "Ah, no."

You sigh, enjoying the part-discomfort, part-horror crossing his features. "What a tragedy!"

"I'll make it up to you somehow."

Another singer is on the stages, and mangles a newer punk-polka tune with intermittent shrieks and wails. You're less impressed now – and when the bar owner declares the end of karaoke after that, you don't complain, even if it  _is_  still early. There are fewer dancers now, most likely having gone off to greener pastures. But soon the room is heady with low beats and sweat once more, and you finish your drink.

"Dance with me," Leonard says suddenly.

You stare. "Ah –" you begin. But he grasps your hand, half-dragging you past the gyrating bodies and towards the music set-up.

The bass from the speakers throbs through your shoes so near. Leonard pauses at the outdated jukebox running the music, wired to the top-of-the-line sound system, and he pushes a few buttons. A grunt of frustration, and then he pulls you again into the crowded center of the room. The pair of you are jostled, but after a moment the throbbing beat slows, and some of the people dissipate in protest.

"Finally," Leonard says with the trace of a grumble, and he draws you into his arms. "Now let's really test your ken of music."

"You think I don't know this song?" you ask with a smile, because, of course – you do.

"It's an off-chance. But really I'm just curious."

"Recorded by Glen Campbell in 1976, from his album Southern Nights?"

Leonard frowns. "You're ruining the mood."

"You did say you were curious," you tease.

"Button your lips and enjoy it."

You wouldn't say it was a slow dance – not exactly – but Leonard evidently thought it was. He was an old-fashioned dancer, with one hand slipping around your waist and his other holding one of your hands. It's rather exhilarating – how did this dancing ever go out of style? His cheek presses slightly to the top of your head, and you hear the barest rumble of his voice murmuring along to the words –

_Southern nights_  
_Have you ever felt a southern night?_  
_Free as a breeze_  
_Not to mention the trees  
_ _Whistling tunes that you know and love so_

_Southern skies_  
_Have you ever noticed southern skies?_  
_Its precious beauty lies just beyond the eye_  
_It goes running through your soul  
_ _Like the stories told of old…_

It's difficult to try to keep goosebumps from breaking out across the skin of your neck where his breath touches. For all the times you've been touched by him before – this is  _entirely_ different. And a little alarming. But mostly…comforting and exhilarating all at once.

"I haven't seen a southern night," you decide to say at last. Leonard pulls back his head slightly, smiling down at you.

"Well – perhaps you will, sometime."

"If I'm lucky."

He pauses, swaying you along to the music for a thoughtful moment. "I used to think you were the unluckiest girl on the Enterprise," he says after a moment. "Ending up more injured than most security officers, and even Jim…"

You laugh. "So did I!"

"Do you still?" Leonard's hands are warm, on your waist, holding your hand. His eyes are warm, too.

"Nope."


End file.
